


Desire Nothing More

by Llewelley



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Canon Compliant, Celibacy, Crisis of Faith, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religious Conflict, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewelley/pseuds/Llewelley
Summary: When Ragnar is invited to spend the night in King Ecbert’s castle following negotiations, he is reunited with the beloved yet conflicted Athelstan. Through passionate exchanges the two must come to terms with the fact that they can no longer disregard their feelings—they are fated to be together.





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to take place during 209, _The Choice_.

“They say these are the works of giants,” Ragnar remarked, touching the marble cheek of a short-haired man placed atop a white pillar. The figure was so life-like it was entirely believable that something supernatural must have been involved in its creation. Or perhaps a _miracle_ , as the Christians said.

“Who are _they_?” Athelstan asked, amused by the Viking’s curiosity.

“Your people.”

“And do you believe that?”

Ragnar patted the head of the stone figure and shrugged. “I believe that your people also think that _we_ are giants.” 

Athelstan smiled at him from behind the lectern and continued with his work. He was glad to be in the company of Ragnar, his great friend, once again. It was an unexpected yet perfectly diplomatic decision for King Ecbert to have allowed the earl to stay one night in the castle to oversee the recovery of his brother Rollo. Of course, Ecbert also wished to show off the superiority of Anglo-Saxon culture by introducing Ragnar to his collection of art and artifacts and to the comforts of his home. It also didn’t hurt to dangle Athelstan over Ragnar’s head and taunt him with the fact that he, the King of Wessex, had taken from Ragnar what he cherished most. 

Ragnar made his way around the perimeters of the room, admiring the other sculptures and wall paintings of nearly nude women and otherworldly creatures. It was a quality of craftsmanship he had never seen in his own land. There were also shelves filled with scrolls which he’d been told kept the secrets of the ancients in a written language known only by a privileged few. Athelstan had one such scroll unfurled before him along with a flat piece of parchment on which he carefully wrote with an inky stylus, pausing momentarily to glance at the document. 

“So what is the truth, priest?” 

Athelstan set down his pen and looked Ragnar in the eye with such casual openness it was as if the two were simply continuing a conversation they had paused a year ago. “The truth, Ragnar, is that these works were made by a people who conquered this land a long time ago. The Romans.”

“Romans...” Ragnar repeated. “They sound familiar.”

“Their Empire reigned from the south. I believe the Northmen also have stories of them in the oral tradition. As a matter of fact, they still exist today, in a city far, far to east. The greatest of all Christian cities—Constantinople. They are known as Byzantines now, but they descend from the same tradition.”

“Amazing, these things you know.”

Ragnar truly was amazed by Athelstan, and it pained him to see that his role in the castle was a much more valuable one than anything he himself could offer. Here he was a scholar, an artist, a counselor, and once again a respected man of God. But still he held in his heart the hope that his friend and onetime closest companion would make the choice to return home to Kattegat, for nothing had ever been important to Athelstan than Ragnar and his family, that much he knew.  
He convinced himself of this even though things were so different now; he’d let too much time pass. Athelstan’s hair had grown even longer and he wore it tied neatly away from his face. His dark beard was trimmed to complement the appearance of his eyes and eyebrows, and he was so clean, dressed in fresh robes and smelling of sweet flowers. And yet his temperament was still entirely that of the man he’d known, kind and encouraging, but with a hint of boldness that made him irresistible to be around. Whether they trusted him or not, people were drawn to Athelstan—it was his greatest strength. 

“What are you doing there?” He asked, looming over the monk.

“I’m translating a text from Latin, which is the language of the Church. There are so many of them, it helps if I do a bit at a time.”

“And did you do this as well?”

Ragnar pointed to the work table, where a painted image of Christ on the cross was set to dry. The picture was exquisitely done in fine lines for the beard and hair, and a bright red color for the blood. 

“Yes, I did. At the monastery I was taught how to illuminate manuscripts with rich pigments and silver and gold, so that they would be pleasing to God.”  
They looked at the painting together and Ragnar placed a hand over Athelstan’s shoulder to commend his friend on his fine work. “You are so talented. I’m sure he is very pleased.”

Athelstan was silent for a moment. 

“I prayed to Him that you would live.”

“To Jesus Christ?”

“Yes.” 

They were unprepared for this conversation, it seemed. It made the atmosphere very heavy, the thought that the two were currently in opposing sides of a violent conflict. Ragnar moved his hand from one shoulder to the other so that his arm wrapped around Athelstan’s back in the same way as when he’d escorted him back to town to ensure his safety. It was a level of affection from the Northman that Athelstan was only just beginning to know, although he had seen it sometimes when Ragnar interacted with his children. He was now looking deep into Ragnar’s eyes, as clear blue as he remembered them, and noticing the new scars on his face from small cuts sustained in battle. There had always been a harsh demeanor to him; he was a reserved and potentially dangerous man, but at this moment Athelstan felt nothing but warmth radiating from Ragnar.

“So I have him to thank for my life, then?”

“I believe so. I believe He has a plan for you and that despite your loss here in Wessex you will ultimately be in His good graces.”

“Then I thank him for it. But first I thank him for reuniting me with you, Athelstan.” Ragnar squeezed the monk’s body in a tight embrace and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. 

“I am so grateful.”


	2. Togetherness

“I’ve been asked to take you somewhere.” Athelstan said as he led Ragnar to a smaller building separate from the castle. There had been a steady drizzle of rain falling from the dreary English sky earlier, but now the sun was finally breaking through the clouds. It would soon turn to fog and rain again—that is how the weather was here. Ragnar was pleased to feel his boots sink into the soft earth, the very thing he’d journeyed this far for, however dirty it made him. 

“I could make so much of this land, priest,” he said. “Imagine me and you, plowing the fields like we used to. We’d make a sacrifice and then you would bless the crops with one of your prayers.”

Athelstan smiled at him. “That’s a wonderful thought.”

When they entered the stone building, Ragnar immediately recognized the room, decorated with more columns and paintings, at the center of which was a deep pool. Just one more Saxon wonder.

“I know this place, I have been here before. The king’s bath.”

“Yes,” Athelstan simply said, standing in place while Ragnar explored the surroundings. The low afternoon light shone through the windows, making the room bright and the surface of the water glisten like crystal. Suddenly, Ragnar brought his hands to his torso to unbuckle the leather armor, dropping it to his feet. He pulled his tunic from his back and over his head and began to unlace his trousers. 

“Join me.” He said to Athelstan, smiling through the command. 

Athelstan furrowed is brow. “I don’t think it was Ecbert’s intention that I should use his bath.”

“I am a guest of his, aren’t I? He’s been kind enough to allow you to spend time with me, why would he suddenly deny me the company of my friend? We have so much to talk about.”

Knowing there was no use going against Ragnar’s will, Athelstan let out a good-humored sigh, stepped out of his shoes and started to remove his clothing. From where he stood he could see out of the corner of his eye Ragnar submerge his scarred nude body into the pool. Athelstan cleared his throat. Ragnar’s powerful arms braced against the ledge as he lowered himself down until his braided hair plunged into the water. The light inside the bathhouse was such that the blonde of his head and beard glowed like a halo around his face. 

From the moment Athelstan had met him, on that fateful day of thunder and blood, he’d known that there was an air of magic around Ragnar Lothbrok. At first he was nothing but be the bringer of the Apocalypse, but the longer he stayed by his side, under his fierce protection, it seemed that he truly must be descended from Odin. Even now, carrying the shame of defeat, Ragnar looked young and strong and unshaken. Whenever he bared his teeth in a mischievous smile, Athelstan noticed the confidence of a man who was steps ahead in his thinking. Ragnar always had a plan and a purpose. 

Keeping his undergarments, Athelstan sank into the warm, inviting water straight across from Ragnar and dipped his hands in to splash some on his face. Ragnar noticed that in addition to the cross around his neck, Athelstan had not removed the twisted gold band on his wrist.

“I must say, Athelstan, how happy it makes me to see you wearing your arm ring again.” 

“Why would I not wear it? It is sacred. I wore it up until it was taken from me. Thank you for returning it.”

“I thought for sure that you had such good a life here that you might never think of me again.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ragnar. I think of you always. I dream about the fjord and life on the ships and I stay up late sometimes wondering what it is that you are up to.”  
A great sense of relief came over Ragnar upon hearing this. Were he a more unrestrained man, he would tell Athelstan that he thought of him every day since their parting; that often after Aslaug and the boys had gone to sleep, he wished that he could come to Athelstan’s bedside and wake him. He could then spend part of the night huddled by the fire with the monk, hearing stories about the lives of saints and the splendors of the west. Unprepared to reveal his vulnerability, Ragnar opted to keep the conversation lighthearted. 

“May I also comment, if won’t embarrass you too much, that you seem to have kept in fighting shape.”

At this Athelstan looked down at his own reflection and felt himself begin to blush. It was true, he was always made a bit uncomfortable by comments over his physical self. A life mostly spent hiding under wool robes, rejecting the importance of the flesh, could certainly do that. Even after living with the Northmen, who were so frank about the sensual world, the mere mention of the bodily made a bit of red appear in his face. It was best to have a sense of humor about it.  
“It is good to know that you still take such delight in teasing me, Earl Ragnar,” he said. “I must admit I do still practice my training as regularly as possible, should those skills ever be needed, God forbid.”

“Look at you! High position in the council, fighting fit, educated, well-groomed… you must be attracting the attentions of some women.”

“You are far too cruel.”

Ragnar threw his head back in laughter and the water swished around him creating a ripple that reached Athelstan’s side of the bath.  
“Yes, very funny, but you’re not entirely wrong.”

“Oh, aren’t I?” Ragnar leaned in. Now Athelstan had hooked him.

“I have noticed some of the serving girls glance at me for far too long. At first I suspected it was because I was the only one who thanked them or even acknowledged them, but I’ve come to realize I’m one of the few men in court around their age, I’m not married, I’m not a soldier constantly away at battle, I no longer have my hair tonsured… it all adds up. And then there’s Princess Judith, who seems to hold her breath whenever I come near. I think she must be very unhappy in her marriage to Aethelwulf and looking for a way out. Who can blame her? It is entirely political.”

Ragnar raised his eyebrows suggestively. “How about the Mercian one… Kwenthrith?”

“Oh,” Athelstan huffed and shook his head. “I am not counting her.”

They were now grinning at one another with pure amusement, ready to burst into laughter. 

“She looks like an insatiable one indeed,” Ragnar replied. “I bet she could have me, you, the king, and his son and not pause for a drink!” 

Athelstan missed this the most, the downtime, the camaraderie between the men when they were not fighting or preparing to fight. He missed the jokes, the games, the banter that brought joy and laughter into the hard lives of the Viking warriors. He was allowed to be part of it sometimes, but mainly he was a spectator, relegated to the periphery by the mere fact that many of them still considered him an outsider. Having led a cloistered life, it wasn’t as if he would have much to contribute anyway. He remembered joking with the younger monks at Lindisfarne on occasion, but very tamely, never anything close to the uninhibited revelry of the Northmen. He had never had real brothers to be at ease around, no real relationships of any sort, so he was content even with this marginal status. This was not the case around Ragnar, however. 

“Why are you so concerned with me, anyway?” Athelstan said, returning to topic. “Worry about Bjorn instead. He’s as big as a tree!”

“And as handsome as his father,” Ragnar added, scratching his beard.

“Should be in want of a wife soon, no?”

“Yes, I suppose,” the earl sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid his fate will be the same as mine. We love women who love to fight.”

Athelstan rolled his eyes halfway. “Don’t speak ill of Lagertha and Aslaug. You are blessed to have been loved by two great women in one lifetime.”

“So you say, but you have never lived with a woman.”

“Fair enough,” Athelstan conceded.

“I know one thing to be true: love and freedom do not exist hand in hand. You either choose love or to be free. I want to sail far, my friend, to lands neither you nor I can imagine, but I have a duty to Aslaug and to my family in Kattegat. She will not come with me, so I must keep returning to her, and I am starting to become indifferent to it.”

Ragnar watched his friend’s face contort into a frown as he processed Ragnar’s troubled statement, but soon it relaxed again into a calm expression.  
“Here I thought that warriors always dream of returning home to their wives. Perhaps I’m ignorant. Perhaps it’s only a romantic notion,” Athelstan stated plainly and without judgment, in his usual manner. There was something about the way he spoke that was always disarming and filled Ragnar with a sense of comfort that he had not felt in a long time. This was closer to home than anything. 

“Ah well, I certainly do miss her sometimes, I do not want to give you the impression that I don’t care for her at all," Ragnar took a deep breath and sank a bit further down into the water. He closed his eyes for a moment as if entering into a daydream and then opened them again to look at Athelstan. "I miss her body next to mine at night. How warm and soft she is. Listening to the sound of her breathing quicken when I touch her and hearing her gasp when I slide my hand up the curve of her thigh and over her belly to touch her breasts..." Ragnar lifted his hand from the water to demonstrate the smooth sweeping motion and then dropped it in a small splash.  
"I'm sorry, Athelstan, I suppose you do not want to hear this."

Athelstan smirked modestly. "I can't say that I am not curious about such things. I am a man, after all. Still, I think you should keep the memory of your wife for yourself only."

"You know that I have grown to respect your vows, but once again I cannot help but think how horribly I would fail to keep such a promise. For a young man to not seek such pleasures—it baffles me."

"I have never had a genuine longing for it," Athelstan responded quickly. It was a lie, of course. The monastery functioned as a retreat from temptation and that it did well, but during his travels Athelstan had surely lusted repeatedly after some fair maiden or another. And during his time in the north… well, there had been sins and thoughts of committing sins which he had never thought possible, that much was certain.

“But the discussion of it does not bother you?” Ragnar inquired. 

“Not now; not anymore. I have been in the world long enough to know this is the way of it. It does not shock me.”

It seemed to Ragnar that Athelstan was not simply reassuring him of no offense, but that he really did want to hear more. The otherwise perfect composure was broken up by sudden quick blinking and biting of the corner of his lips as he waited for Ragnar to speak. This slight hint of weakness from Athelstan was something he could not help but find charming. Maybe, he thought, the priest really had changed. Maybe for once Ragnar did have the upper hand to steer the conversation into territory he’d been too considerate to touch around Athelstan before.

“Then let me tell you this: I seem to be becoming more sentimental with age. Had I been on this raid years ago I would have already found release in the prettiest shieldmaiden or some Saxon whore—I would not have let my bed go cold. But nowadays when I am alone, hard and throbbing with need, I feel no impulse to stumble into an insignificant fuck. I lie there with my flesh on fire, gathering thoughts about a nonexistent lover, a beautiful mouth pressed against mine, sucking on my tongue. My hands reach out to grasp at this absent body and as they slide down its dewy skin, for a moment I am lost.” Ragnar tilted his head back and gazed bleary-eyed at nothing in particular. “Just when I think this must be one of the gods playing a trick on me, the creature returns and I take possession of it. I am able to hold it down with my weight and mark its flesh with my teeth. It’s absolutely mad; I feel that this is all I have ever wanted, that I have been waiting for it all along. I feel entirely complete as I bury my aching cock into the heat of this body and thrust furiously until I can no longer think of anything but the pleasure.” Ragnar ran a hand over his broad chest and reached across to massage his shoulder. “And so, in this way, the fantasy has become more important to me than the reality. I desire so intensely something I cannot have.”

From anyone else, these words would have sounded vulgar, but Ragnar was so soft-spoken that they spilled from his lips like poetry, like a Song of Solomon. In the back of his mind, Athelstan began to recall the first night he had spent in Ragnar’s home, far from everything he’d ever known. He sat clutching his gospel book, which his new master had mercifully not taken from him, and read in mumbled whispers in an effort to drown out the sound of Lagertha’s blissful moans as Ragnar made love to her in the next room. Then, unexpectedly, Ragnar appeared at the partition, bare-chested as he was now, to invite Athelstan into his bed. The beautiful sight of Lagertha as his door had undoubtedly stirred him, but it was the look in Ragnar’s eyes that had stayed with him all these years. It was inviting, adventurous. He recognized the mark of someone who led his life with urgency and passion and Athelstan was in awe that Ragnar would consider him, of all people, suitable company. From that moment on he’d succeeded in making a habit of resistance, but as they grew closer as friends, resisting Ragnar’s way of life became more of a challenge. Now it had come to this—willingly listening to Ragnar’s lustful thoughts and being grateful that the deep waters concealed his compulsory arousal. 

“Perhaps you should take a mistress,” Athelstan suggested plainly. “If it will help quell the fire.”

Ragnar’s eyes widened with surprise. “Well, well, my Christian friend, I never thought you would propose such a thing. What happened to your Christ-like virtuosity?”

Athelstan glanced sideways at Ragnar in the way he did whenever he was being a little too irreverent. The look had lost some of its sting.

“It was only an idea.”

“I thought I could trust you to lead me down the path of righteousness,” Ragnar continued. “But now whatever shall I do without my spiritual guide?” 

He flashed his crooked white smile again, but Athelstan only looked away with an impatient sigh. Ragnar truly enjoyed being facetious.

“The longer we are away from home, the more I realize how different I have become from my men. A true Viking has no problem firing white arrows when necessary.”  
Ragnar gave Athelstan a wink just in case something was lost in translation, but Athelstan understood perfectly well what Ragnar meant and he intended to prove himself capable of being unflustered by it. There was no chance of him allowing a red blush to show on his skin again.  
“Raiding is strenuous on the body and mind. I suppose they need to relieve stress somehow.”

“Sure, but they could stand to be more disciplined like you Saxons. I find that austerity before battle toughens the spirit. But so long as they are not picking fights amongst themselves, I don’t care whether they turn to their hand or to one another.” 

Athelstan meant to chuckle at the absurdity of the statement, but only a low hum escaped from his mouth. It occurred to him that he may have something to contribute to this bawdy conversation. This was so rarely the case that he was momentarily taken aback by his train of thought. 

“You know, it seems to me, at least from what I’ve gathered from studying ancient art and reading many of these old texts, that the Romans may have been more liberal with matters of sexuality than even the Northmen. For one, they often depicted sexual acts in their art quite… explicitly. And I am also beginning to understand that many men were not confined to engaging in relations with women, but that they often could just as casually have sex with other men. It is fascinating and very complex, these different types of interactions and notions of masculinity… I do not know what to make of it yet.”

The corner of Ragnar’s mouth quirked up. An accidental twitch bordering on a deliberate smirk. To think that despite all his wisdom and intelligence, despite the worldliness and knowledge acquired through years of study, Athelstan was still so innocent. Yet he couldn’t find it in his heart to jest or even half-jest, Athelstan’s eyes were much too sincere. There was nothing particularly funny about it, anyway. He tried his best to comment without a trace of sarcasm.

“Imagine such a thing.”

With that Ragnar disappeared into the depths of the bath and resurfaced in a huge splash making Athelstan laugh at the Viking’s merry lack of decorum. But the laughter was fleeting—Athelstan felt as though a weight was pressing down on his chest, something not quite right with his body and mind, much as it was before having a vision. This rekindled intimacy with Ragnar was awkward and embittered by his own indecisiveness. He couldn’t even look at Ragnar without seeing both potential joy and impending doom. Either something would fall into place soon or something would fall out.


	3. Vigil

The night came and with it Ragnar’s restlessness. He could not force himself to lie down. The spacious, lavender-scented bedroom prepared for him did not help to put him at ease and only made him think of his hall in Kattegat and the men back at the camp sleeping on the hard ground. Nothing in this part of the world was certain, not even the treaty he had just made with Wessex and Mercia. He felt not at all like the undaunted warrior everyone believed him to be, but like a man buried under a mountain of worries, hoping desperately that he had made the right decision. Maybe Floki was right, maybe there was something ill-fated about this venture. 

And then there was Athelstan. Knowing that he was asleep somewhere within the same walls didn’t help. He could see in his mind the dark-haired man lying on his side in the blue light of the moon, his eyelids only just closed, his lips slightly parted, a palm closed around a crucifix. 

Ragnar always thought of him. Why always him? Whether Athelstan chose to stay or return was of little consequence at a time like this, there were more important things to agonize over: the promise of a new settlement, the constant threat of treachery. And yet there the priest was, crowding his thoughts. 

Ragnar stood from his chair, lingered awhile in his room, and came to a decision to abandon these confinements and pace until he had pondered through his many concerns. 

He walked the candlelit corridors as quietly as possible, moving with great care so as to not draw attention. Fortunately, the sound of his footsteps was masked by the rainfall and wind. There were also no guards here. The king’s chamber was on the opposite side of the castle, it seemed. In any case, he had kept wearing his armor and a stolen seax in his belt. There was no such thing as being too cautious; treaty or no treaty, he was still a foreigner and an enemy. 

There were many rooms, presumably occupied by courtiers and functionaries, and he could not help but be in awe of the place. The English were a prosperous people—that much had been clear from the very start of this campaign. Compared to this, the Baltic lands he had raided in his youth were primitive and barren.  
Hidden in nooks and corners were more ancient statues, some missing limbs and heads, of women as real as in the flesh, and young men in their physical prime. Ragnar walked slowly, admiring the details in each one and being more amazed by the next than he was by the previous. Before he noticed, he had wandered far off from his room and into a place vaguely familiar. He remembered a passageway with a few stairs that led down to the crypts and archives—this seemed to be it. At the bottom of the stairs was a dim light accompanied by the nearly inaudible sound of words being recited in a whisper. There was someone here. 

“Athelstan, is that you?” Ragnar called out in his native tongue as he stepped closer to the threshold. Inside, there was the distinct figure of a man sitting on the floor in the corner of the room reading by the light of a candle, and it certainly was his good friend. He was no longer wearing his priest’s robes but dressed in a nightshirt and breeches, as if he’d prepared for bed but sleep had eluded him.

“Ragnar?” Athelstan looked up at him with a kind expression, clearly taking the moment to remember the many times Ragnar had barged into his room unexpectedly or shaken him awake in the middle of the night. 

“So you are awake also.”

“Yes, my mind is full of thoughts.” Athelstan rolled up the scroll and directed his attention entirely to the man towering over him. 

“Mine too,” Ragnar confessed. “Am I interrupting you? Were you preparing for your nighttime prayers?

“Oh no, I’ve tried. I can only do casual payers now; I'm out of practice with everything else.”

“Hmm.” Ragnar recalled Athelstan’s strange prayers when he first came to Kattegat and how they had slowly decreased and ultimately vanished as time went on. Athelstan had surely lost an important part of his identity in order to swear fealty to Ragnar, and for this he had always felt somewhat guilty. 

“Did you get a chance to see your brother again?” 

“I did, I did. Rollo is speaking. It will take time, but I think he will heal well.”

Athelstan smiled sympathetically. “Good. I agree.” He carefully placed the scroll in a wooden box and propped his body up onto his arms.

“No, don’t stand. I will sit next to you,” Ragnar insisted. He stepped out from the shadows, took a candle from Athelstan’s hand, and lit a couple more along the walls. He then crouched down and settled onto the flat wolf skin with his knees bent in front of him, pleased to see Athelstan’s face clearly in the flickering light.

“I know we did not speak of this before, but I hope you consider your visit here to be a successful one. I was happy to mediate the negotiations and I think it’s splendid that you will finally have the land you’ve always wanted,” Athelstan told him.

Ragnar only looked at him for some time. Athelstan appeared in front of him a different man from the one that had earned his arm ring in battle, but not so different from the one who had attempted to educate him in languages, history, and the ideas of the great thinkers of the past. His eyes were still the same bright blue, his voice still the same gentle timbre, youthful and yet mature. But it was as if he was getting to know him again, or on his own terms for the first time. Were the eyes those of a warrior looking out into the North Sea or those of a monk reading manuscripts in his study? Was the voice cold and Nordic or undulating and Saxon? Athelstan had always been a person of contradictions and Ragnar was, as ever, unsure of how someone as intellectual and complicated as Athelstan viewed him.

“We are all very fortunate to have you,” he responded simply. “We need you.”

Now it was Athelstan’s turn to take in Ragnar's image. He began to note the details of his face, the tattoos increasingly adorning the sides and back of his head, the lines on the corners of his eyes that showed hard-earned experience rather than age. The fair-haired man was impressive and striking in a way that not many men could be. There was a raw, unpolished virility that had the potential to intimidate anyone; an unsettling quality to be found in the softness of his speech and the depth of his eyes. Athelstan had often worried that he'd taught himself to admire superficial things about Ragnar, since he accepted early on in their friendship that one could never gauge the inner workings of the earl’s mind. It was something he tried not to dwell on. 

“If it helps to put you at ease, I do think King Ecbert and Queen Kwenthrith are sincere in their wishes of peace with you. They know you’re a formidable opponent. I have told them.”

At this, Ragnar seemed alarmed. 

“You have not told them too much, I hope.”

“No, not too much,” Athelstan said with a reassuring smile. 

“Good.” Ragnar sighed and stroked his cheek contemplatively. He hadn’t left his room to ponder the difficulties of life, but to distract himself from them. 

“What is that you are reading?” He asked, returning a half-smile. 

“Uhm… battle strategies.”

“Battle strategies,” Ragnar repeated, unhappily. There was no way around the issue; he was faced here with a once cherished ally who was now working for the opposition. His contained anger was on the verge of spilling over when suddenly it occurred to him that Athelstan had admitted to this far too easily and without much hesitation. He pursed his lips and remained calm. Perhaps there was hope yet. 

“Who wrote them?”

“Well, the text is very old. They’re by a historian named Polybius who wrote a great many things, but these scrolls in particular are about Greek and Roman military tactics. It really is fascinating, I must say,” Athelstan explained eagerly as he placed his hand over the box and tapped his fingers on the hard cover. A shimmer along his wrist caught Ragnar’s attention—the arm ring still in place, the two golden heads of Huginn and Muninn face to face. But he noticed something else. On the back of the hand was a small mark—scar tissue that appeared to be the product of a deep cut. He reached for Athelstan’s hand and took in his. “What is this?” Ragnar asked with moderate concern. He took a second to examine scar and discovered a similar one in the center of his palm. Whatever had injured him, it had pierced straight through his flesh. 

When he saw that Athelstan had instinctively made a closed fist with his other hand, he seized it and also forced it open. 

They were matching wounds. Deliberate wounds. A horrifying sight. 


	4. Communion

“I can’t believe I did not notice this before… Who did this to you?” Ragnar demanded to know, fury rising in his eyes. 

Athelstan kept his mouth closed, refusing to lie and refusing to reignite tensions between Ragnar and the Saxons. He tried to retract his hands but Ragnar gripped him tighter by the wrists.

“Tell me, how much did you suffer?” 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Athelstan answered guardedly. 

“Those who did this to you, whoever they are, should thank the gods for their luck. If I had been here to witness it, I would have placed each one of their heads on a pike.”

“King Ecbert saved me from certain death.”

“So I should bend my knee to Ecbert again? His men attacked ours and he allowed this to happen!”

“It was not his fault. I will not engage you in an argument about this, Earl Ragnar.”

“You have a loyalty to this English king that I find disturbing. And his hold on you, this near obsession, is not something that I can easily tolerate.”

With daring impertinence, Athelstan narrowed his eyes and stared the Viking down. “He thinks I am more useful to him living than dead, just as you once did. That is all.”

Suddenly Ragnar’s expression melted from anger into confusion. He let go of his grip on Athelstan. Ragnar could feel his spirit wilting and anguish building in his stomach as the words struck him. So far had their friendship come, so long had he trusted the man, it seemed unbelievable that Athelstan could be capable of such cruelty. 

“Is that what you think of me? Do you think my emotions for you extend only as far as you are useful to me? I made you free; I gave you the opportunity to leave if you wanted. I did not force you to fight my battles, but you fought willingly and bravely at my right hand, against your own kind. Now you are reverting back to your old ways—so be it. No one can blame you for wanting to be a pious scholar in the court of a king instead of a seafarer and a farmer with blood and dirt on your hands. But do not insult me by implying that I have no affection for you.”

Athelstan shook his head repentantly, but did not retract. It was clear that he had thought of this many times before.

“I understand that you grew to care for me. I watched your children, I tended your home, we taught each other our languages and about our gods. Yet I don’t understand why we were brought together. We are so different. What business do we have with one another that God or the All-Father would mold the world around us so that we would meet and meet again and never break bonds? Why can’t we go our own ways, Ragnar?”

There was a long silence. The rain outside continued its downpour and the world was momentarily uneasy as the question stood unanswered, growing in significance with each passing second. Athelstan occupied himself by rustling his papers and stashing away more scrolls, a failed attempt at showing indifference to whether Ragnar responded or not. 

“In all honesty, Athelstan, I have asked myself the same question too many times,” Ragnar said somberly. “I knew from when I first met you that I needed to keep you around. Everyone thought that I had gone mad, choosing a Christian slave as my prize for conquest. The men even mocked me for it, said I had been enchanted of your sweet young face, by your foreign allure.”

Athelstan furrowed his brow at the implications of this statement and opened his mouth to speak, but words were never formed. 

“Still, in my heart I felt some prophecy had come to pass. I felt that you would lead me to great things. So in some ways you are right— I kept you because I believed that you would be of use to me; I believed this as selfishly as possible. Every time I interrupted your prayers I did so to learn more about the West for my gain… until.” Ragnar paused to exhale. “Until there came a time when that was no longer true. You tried your best to become one of us, I saw that and I admired you for it. Even as my slave you offered me your friendship and ultimately your devotion. You were kind and forgiving of my wrongdoings. You took interest in my ambitions, in my life, in my _soul_ , as you would say. And so I did with you.” 

Athelstan remained speechless, turning his face away when possible.

“Look at me!” Ragnar ordered with a growl, forcing the younger man to confront the situation. “This bond between us has not diminished, you cannot deny it. We’ve shared too much together. Even today, we have been so intimate, haven’t we? I trust you more than I have ever trusted my closest allies, or even the women I’ve loved. I cannot be without you, Athelstan. The possibility that you would choose something other than being with me is unimaginable. It’s devastating.”

The monk said nothing still.

“I am tired of waiting and hoping that you will give me a sign, an answer—anything in return. I seek you for comfort, for advice, for reassurance in dark times. I ask you to stand by my side, to be my kin. I would cross the wide and storming seas a thousand times to see your face again.” He leaned in, kneeling on the soft furs, without tearing his eyes away from Athelstan for a second. “I always come to you. Only once, I wish, you would come to me.”

The sound of Ragnar’s voice as he spoke was transformed into a sermon in Athelstan’s ears, begging him to speak his own truth. He stood there a long time, too long a time, hesitating to respond although he knew he had something to say. He bit down on his tongue and on the inside of his cheek. He drew in air slowly and heard his heart pounding in his head.  
Just when Ragnar shook his head in frustration and shifted his body to stand, having had enough of the tired game, Athelstan summed up some courage. 

“Ragnar,” he said calmly. “I think you were wrong, earlier. When you said we all have to choose between love and freedom.”

Ragnar looked at him with intrigue, held down by the gravity of the moment. He watched Athelstan move closer, diminishing the space between them until he could almost feel the Englishman’s whispers on his skin.

“I think love can make one very free. To confess it is to shed your false self, to risk everything for the promise of an uncertain reward. Love can absolve every sin and eradicate every sorrow. It can be eternal, the very foundation of devotion. It can bring boundless joy, so that in your life you will desire nothing more. Isn’t that freedom?”

These words rang true and Ragnar held one of Athelstan’s hands again, intertwining their fingers together and running his thumb over the rough scar on his palm.

“I believe it is. In fact, I know that it is so,” Athelstan said, reaching out, finally, to touch Ragnar by his own free will. Ragnar felt the hand cup his bearded cheek and then graze slowly down to his collar and around to the nape of his neck. He felt his body weaken as he looked into the young monk’s earnest eyes, glistening in the dim light. Their faces so close, their instincts so in harmony, it was almost too natural when their lips met in a gentle kiss, light and innocent. It was nothing. Just a kiss. And yet it was the culmination so many things, all they had been through in their tumultuous lives, together and apart, two men alike in loyalty and passion. 

Athelstan’s hand remained firmly on the back of Ragnar’s head as Ragnar pressed their mouths together again to recreate the first kiss, as delicately as he could. The cropped part of the Earl’s hair had grown out slightly so that it felt soft as suede over the tattoos and under the tender caress of Athelstan’s fingers. To this Ragnar responded by pulling Athelstan into a strong embrace, forcing his lips to part in a gasp when they collided with Ragnar’s again, this time in a full kiss that made them both inhale hastily and exhale into each other’s mouths. Ragnar took advantage of the opening to push his tongue past Athelstan’s lips only just enough to taste him for the first time. He had been hungry for him—starved. 

The velvety feeling of a wet tongue against his own shook Athelstan, but Ragnar tethered him down with the strength of one arm and deepened the kiss greedily, demanding that his companion become comfortable with the new sensation quickly. He made up for his selfishness by soothing a hand down Athelstan’s spine over the thin linen of his shirt, feeling the small quivers tensing the muscles of his back. The Englishman was in every way more gentle and refined than Ragnar could ever hope to be, but when Athelstan began to return the kiss, there was something quite uncouth about the eagerness of his tongue and the way he clutched Ragnar by the waist, almost fearful that that other man would retreat and reconsider, or that his own Christian conscience would resurface if he did not hold on. Ragnar could not imagine wanting to put a stop to this; he too had never known this freedom, this dismantling of boundaries where he was at one with another person, neither contrived nor impulsive. Perhaps this was romance, though he would not have been able to identify the concept. It was like nothing else. 

They kissed with unwavering desire, holding tighter and tighter, bodies growing hot under each other’s hands. This heat was quickly finding its way to Ragnar’s groin and the natural progression began to alarm him. He had a terrible need for this man physically, and with anyone else he would have pressed on, unconcerned with their comfort or sensitivities. Yet maintaining harmony with Athelstan was more important lest the priest be put off by aggression. This is what Athelstan did to him—make him act differently despite himself. Make him a better person.  
Ragnar bit his lower lip and paused abruptly.

“Athelstan.” 

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that I am satisfied with this. We can kiss and nothing more.”

“I want more.” Athelstan stopped him short. “Ragnar, I have put this off long enough. I have wanted it to happen for some time—it’s been just beneath the surface. It has to be with you.” He watched the spark in Ragnar’s gaze intensify at this revelation. “I am changed. I am not a monk. No amount of books or reminiscence can alter the fact that I will never know that life again. You are my life.” Athelstan nuzzled against his cheek and the two breathed in sync. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Ragnar echoed the only thing left to be said.

His lips caught Athelstan’s again and the two moaned into a kiss which could have lasted an eternity; neither of them interested in moving forward with time. But soon it seemed to Athelstan that the air was growing thin as tongues dove more deeply and the solid muscle of Ragnar’s chest pressed into his.

Needing to recover, Athelstan rested his forehead against Ragnar's and took in his scent. So familiar, even after bathing. So remarkably masculine. He had now fully accepted the effect Ragnar had on him, he desired to follow Ragnar’s lead not only because he was inexperienced but because it seemed natural to do so. This was his oath.  
As Athelstan contemplated his surrender to the sensual, he felt Ragnar’s mouth on his throat and then an obscene sweep of the tongue behind his ear. Athelstan emitted a groan so shameless that he surprised himself at how far he’d descended into sin in a single day.

Yet he did not protest; he could not speak a single objection against the feeling of Ragnar’s lips trailing down the column of his neck. It was maddening, how greedily Ragnar kissed the sensitive skin and licked the beads of sweat beginning to gather by his collarbones. Disoriented for a moment, Athelstan’s breath hitched and he became alert again upon realizing that Ragnar’s hand had snaked between their bodies. No man's hands had ever ventured there. No woman’s either. The warm, rough touch of a palm on his swollen member was as alien as it was familiar, though something he had not done in a long time or without deep-seated shame. Blood was rushing to it more quickly than before, hardening and lengthening his concealed cock almost to the point of pain. Ragnar brushed over it a few times, but he appeared to be in no great hurry, despite Athelstan’s earlier blessing for something _more_. Instead of attempting to release him of the constraints, Ragnar’s hand wandered off and continued to linger over Athelstan’s clothed body, feeling the structure of the man’s frame and the promise of the firm, lean physique beneath, that which no one else had ever taken pleasure in. 

Athelstan jutted his hips upward, searching out the friction of the Northman’s leather clothing, and encountered a firm bulge matching his own straining the seams of the heavy material. He was sure he heard the word _yes_ come from Ragnar’s mouth as soon as he felt the first thrust. Before long they were steadily bucking against each other, thighs entangled and clamped together as they writhed, Athelstan running his hands up Ragnar’s back, enjoying the way his form flexed as Ragnar overwhelmed him with his larger body and ground his into the floor. The Viking bit at Athelstan’s neck and jawline like a wolf and they gasped and panted in unison until the embrace was broken again. 

Ragnar leaned back on his elbows and feasted his eyes on the sight of the ravished man still lying on his back, searching for air, regaining his sense of time and place. A thing of beauty if he ever saw one. 

“Have I tempted you sufficiently, priest?” he asked. 

Athelstan chuckled, but didn't answer. 

The rosy flush of Athelstan’s face caused Ragnar’s self-satisfied smirk to emerge. He couldn’t wait to have him. 

“Will you join me in my room?”

Athelstan bit down on his jaw. The proposal felt entirely too official. If he accepted, this would no longer be a highly emotional tryst or a lapse of morality, but a conscious decision to give into the Northman’s seduction. He looked at Ragnar with uncertainty and longing, waiting for one emotion to overpower the other. 

“It would be a shame for Ecbert to have my bed made with eiderdown and silk and have it go to waste,” Ragnar jokingly made his case after the delayed response. 

“Yes. Yes, I will go with you.”

The affirmation incited Ragnar into action. He sprung unto his feet and scrambled to search the room. Athelstan got up from the floor haltingly and before he could ask Ragnar what he was looking for, a strong hand fell over shoulder, pressing forward not very aggressively, but with urgency. 

“Let’s go.”


	5. Rapture

“You’re trembling.”

“I am a bit anxious, as you can imagine,” Athelstan admitted with some embarrassment as he sat on the edge of the bed. True to form, Ragnar was positively confident as Athelstan watched him, for the second time on this blessed day, discard his armor and clothing piece by piece into a pile on the floor until only his trousers remained to cover him. He had seen Ragnar like this many times before, of course, but somehow his broad shoulders and deeply carved muscles appeared more ideal—more unreal. 

“Here, drink this. I won’t finish it anyway. It tastes like stale piss.”

Ragnar handed him a silver cup filled to the brim with the finest Frankish wine.

“How cultured you are,” Athelstan teased. 

“I’m a filthy Pagan, don’t you know.” Ragnar leered down at him with a mischievous grin and sunk one knee into the mattress, then swung the other over Athelstan so that he was caught beneath him. Athelstan couldn’t help but think how if the two of them weren’t so well acquainted that he would certainly be intimidated by this sight, by the Viking’s dominant figure and his talent for making others feel small in his presence. He stared nervously into the drinking vessel as Ragnar crouched down to slide his fingers up the back of Athelstan’s head and pulled the tie from his hair, freeing the black strands and letting them fall in soft waves. 

“That’s better,” he whispered and rolled unto his side on the bed while Athelstan gulped the last of the wine. A bright blush reappeared on the Englishman’s face, particularly on his lips, tempting Ragnar to taste them again. Athelstan was so understated as a person, and yet so ethereally attractive. He had explained to Ragnar once what made a saint divine; their perfection, their embodiment of all that was pure and good. The saints were infinitely wise and at the same time entirely innocent. If they appeared before you, they could blind you with their beauty and grace.  
Athelstan must be one. If not now, then sometime. 

Ragnar did not notice when he lost control of his hands, which were now grasping Athelstan by the collar, holding him in place while Ragnar took a good look at the marvelous creature he had brought into his bed. 

“You are a pleasure to behold, priest.”

Athelstan let weak, coy smile surface. “Have you always thought so?”

“I’ve always found you easy on the eyes, yes. I didn’t make advances on you for no reason, even when it seemed to be in jest. But you were too obvious a target at first. Too vulnerable. I am not aroused by that, you know. I like people who are strong. And the stronger and more daring you became, the more I desired you.”

“I was terrified of you in the beginning—who wouldn’t have been?” Athelstan recounted. “And you are right, I was very vulnerable and fragile and forlorn. I feared you so much that during those first few weeks at your house I had nightmares. I dreamt of you cornering me when we were alone or covering my mouth in the dark of the night and violating me. It was humiliating and violent and I could do nothing to stop it… and yet I always awoke coated in a sheen of sweat, with an aching erection leaking onto my stomach.”

Ragnar ran his tongue over his teeth as he watched the delicious last words fall from Athelstan’s mouth. “You shock me, Athelstan,” he remarked as one hand traveled over his own trousers to squeeze the hard length pressing against his thigh. It was nearly unbearable now.

“But it makes sense, doesn’t it? That I would think of such a thing, ascetic as I was then. If you had forced yourself on me then I could hide my lust behind your aggression. I would not have been complicit in the corruption of my body. So in some way, I think I must have wanted you ever since.”

Ragnar let out an impatient sigh. “Oh, you’ve chosen no better time to philosophize.” 

Athelstan jabbed an elbow to his side playfully and in between laughs Ragnar saw his chance to grab hold of the lithe man again and pull him up to stand beside the bed. Now on their feet, Ragnar initiated another kiss. The rough bristle of his facial hair combined with the softness of his tongue took Athelstan by surprise as much as it had the first time. His senses were stirred and his mind was drifting. He couldn't recall ever feeling this sexually charged when close to another person in his life. 

“Say it again,” Ragnar groaned into his ear as a calloused hand slid down the waist of Athelstan’s breeches and encircled the hot, bare flesh. “Tell me again that you want me.”

Ragnar was testing his mettle now. He was just the sort of man to do this, to encourage and to guide you until a point of relative comfort and to suddenly present a challenge to see what you were really made of. Ragnar wanted to give you the opportunity to either back down or prove yourself. But Athelstan couldn’t think of this; he couldn’t think of anything except the pressure surrounding the shaft of his penis far too tightly for comfort and yet a source of undeniable pleasure. His entire being felt ignited from its very core.

“Say it.”

“I… want you.”

“Good...” Ragnar loosened his grip and began circle his thumb over the head, already moistened by a drop of Athelstan’s seed. He enjoyed the warm, pulsing weight of it in his hand and how Athelstan hissed when he began to lightly stroke down the length. “Very good. You’ll have me believe you’ve never used this on a woman, priest?”

“Never.”

“That no one has ever touched you like this.”

“No, never.”

“Well, then,” he said with an alarmingly placid voice. “I must be very special to you.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to do something special for me. Will you?”

Athelstan looked at him, bewildered by the roguish expression that Ragnar had failed to suppress. 

“On your knees,” he ordered assertively, yet gently. 

Before Athelstan could comply, Ragnar had already begun tugging at the laces of his trousers, his chest rising and falling with heavy breathing as they came undone. As he knelt before Ragnar, Athelstan grew a bit mortified by how much this thrilled him, but he had promised himself that he would not be a coward. The Viking’s hardness jutted out with a slight upward curve, veins standing out starkly over the silky flesh. Athelstan’s own cock twitched at the sight of it. His hands were beginning to quiver along with the rest of him, but still he brought one up and wrapped his fingers close to the base, feeling Ragnar as solid as the hilt of a sword. It was an impressive thing, warm to the touch and engorged with arousal—that which Athelstan, proudly, was the source of. He stroked down tentatively a few times, regretting that he had not been accustomed to practicing these motions of his own body, but reassured by Ragnar’s pronounced groans of pleasure. Having some idea of what he was really being asked to do from obscene talk he’d heard from others, Athelstan steeled his nerves and leaned in to place his tongue at the tip before brushing it upward. Ragnar’s hands fell into his hair immediately, not grabbing, but smoothing down encouragingly. This was working. Athelstan pulled down on Ragnar’s cock until the head was fully revealed and repeated the motion, finding that the taste was not unpleasant. In fact, the heat of it was satisfying as he flattened his tongue against the underside, and he was enjoying it more with each passing second. 

“Take it into your mouth…” he heard Ragnar say through gritted teeth.

Athelstan’s lips had already become numb from kissing, and so it felt like nothing to close his mouth around the tip as Ragnar stroked the rest of his shaft with his hand. He sucked gently at first, careful to not let his teeth graze the sensitive flesh, but when Ragnar removed his hand, he began to move his lips down the length, coating it with more spit and opening wider until the blunt head reached the roof of his mouth. Indulgent wet sounds filled the room as Athelstan salivated and emitted small moans of determination to take more of the Northman’s cock.  
Athelstan knew that by agreeing to this, he had given himself up to this man completely. But the sounds coming from the earl when he tightened his lips around his cock told him that control was not all one way. Maybe the men were right to be suspicious of Athelstan’s influence over their leader, if this was all it took to overpower him. Athelstan almost smirked at the thought as he continued to draw reckless groans from Ragnar. He didn’t dare to look up, but he was certain Ragnar’s eyes had not left him the entire time.

All of a sudden Ragnar grabbed him by the jaw harshly and held Athelstan’s mouth open as he drew out his spit-covered prick. Taken by surprise, Athelstan remained motionless looking up at the Viking with watering eyes until the grip on his face was released, leaving him with the faint ache of a fresh bruise where Ragnar’s thumb had dug in. It was an obscene sight, Ragnar’s stiff cock glistening with what he knew to be his saliva, yet Athelstan looked at it in awe, as if it were a holy thing. This simple act had transformed him into a most carnal being, eager to partake in every sin of the flesh if it meant seeing Ragnar as he was at this very moment.

“I have just come down from the edge which means it will take some time to come close to it again,” Ragnar said with a ragged voice as he pulled Athelstan back onto his feet.

Athelstan gave a quick nod. He was far too preoccupied with the state of his body and that of the man standing by his side to inquire about anything, he would just have to trust that it was a common practice. 

Ragnar felt as though he had returned to earth after ascending into the realm of the gods. At some point in time he had made peace with the fact that whatever he wanted to happen between him and Athelstan would never be. He was far too disciplined, impossible to tempt with worldly things. He would neither love nor lust because he had given his heart and mind to the pursuit more noble things. His sculpted shoulders and narrow hips, his soft mouth and raven hair had eluded Ragnar until now. Ragnar wanted to touch every bit of him, hold him down as he had the creature in his dreams and conquer him at last. 

“Come to me.”

Ragnar wrapped his strong arms around Athelstan and brought both of their bodies back down over the bed, keeping Athelstan steady in his arms as they reclined on their sides, not quite lying down. They stripped off the remainder of their clothing, eager to feel skin against skin, the coarseness of body hair and the mist of sweat. Ragnar’s hand quickly fell on the outside of Athelstan’s thigh and he pulled it over his own leg, bringing Athelstan’s knees apart and their bodies into a close embrace. The hand disappeared behind Athelstan, but he thought nothing of it as it lingered over the small of his back. Soon enough he felt it on his backside, fingertips stroking over the puckered muscle at the cleft of his arse. 

It was such a startling feeling, so different from anything he’d felt before, that Athelstan involuntarily recoiled and pushed back harshly against Ragnar’s chest. Ragnar placed his hand aside and flinched one eye nervously, concerned that he had not played this out correctly. He had been careful to wet his fingers with spit before exploring this part of Athelstan. Surely he was not ignorant to the idea of what would come next.

“Do you not want this?” 

“It’s only that…” Athelstan looked away, eyelids fluttering, searching for a quick decision. “If we must do this, I need to be shown how. You must treat me as any other virgin.”

Ragnar’s mouth went dry. He understood what Athelstan meant and he was not insensitive to the discomfort that this could cause, but the reminder of the other man’s sexual innocence clouded his head with more memories of the many times he had lusted after Athelstan, how close he had come to plainly stating what he wanted, or simply crawling over the priest as he slept in the tent next to him and insisting that he do his duty as his subject. Now here he was, offering himself.

Ragnar’s finger retraced its path and pressed more firmly against the opening, steadily pushing into it without much resistance, although signs of uneasiness were clearly marked on Athelstan’s face. His eyes begged Ragnar for guidance. 

“Lie on your back.”

Obeying Ragnar, Athelstan fell on his elbows and reclined slowly onto his back, a position that he found more relaxed, but strangely vulnerable. He did not know what more there was to this, but not knowing what would happen next only added to the excitement of the moment. Ragnar would not lead him astray.

From the floor, Ragnar recovered a small glass bottle, removed the cap of it and poured a good amount of its contents into his hand. So that was what he had taken from the room—plant oil used for gilding. Ragnar was steps ahead. 

Athelstan averted his eyes and stared up at the rafters, hoping that this measure would ease the process. What he did not expect was for Ragnar to drip the liquid over his chest and stomach and massage it soothingly into his skin, relieving tension from the taut muscles. “Relax,” Ragnar told him, but the suggestion seemed ridiculous once Ragnar’s oiled fingers wrapped around Athelstan’s cock again, bringing it back to life with a few tugs before cupping his sack gently. “God,” Athelstan said in a raspy whisper, tilting his head back completely. 

Before long, the thick finger was inside him once more, this time slippery with oil and presenting little challenge aside from the strangeness of it all. He grew accustomed to it in minutes, only wincing slightly when Ragnar began to twist it. He felt Ragnar withdraw and return with more oil and another finger, thrusting in again, twisting a bit deeper. There was certainly some pain now, but not enough to surmount the sensation as Ragnar slid in and out, over and over again. Every now and then Athelstan could feel a small hint of pleasure coming from an unknown source within him and his hips lifted involuntarily, searching for more. It grew more intense with each swipe and caused Athelstan’s cock to harden fully, twitching as warm blood pulsed through it. 

Ragnar delighted in the way Athelstan pressed greedily back against his hand in a silent plea. He could not believe what he was doing, that this man of the cloth had been reduced to his primal self under his touch. The burning desire to be rough and forceful was still awake inside him, but he suppressed it and channeled his energy into a powerful grip holding Athelstan’s thighs open.

Athelstan’s eyelids squeezed shut as his muscles clench around the curling fingers and he gasped and grunted through the slick intrusion that seemed to be going deeper and deeper within him. The tension was not enough to finish him off; he hung in an incredible balance of satisfaction and longing, a state almost like a trance, until Ragnar, mercifully, decided that it was enough. Without warning, Ragnar pulled out completely and Athelstan found himself worryingly empty and yet relieved that this part of it was over. He was entirely unsure, however, if it had prepared him enough for what was to come.

The earl’s face hovered over his and for a moment Athelstan felt like apologizing both for his inexperience and for waiting so long to allow this to take place between them. Before that could happen, Ragnar snuck an arm underneath Athelstan’s back, lifting him from the bed. “Turn over,” he breathed huskily. “Please. It will be easier for you.”

Athelstan did so, positioning himself on all fours while Ragnar admired the perfect, pale flesh of his back that unlike his own had not been weathered through the years by the dry air and the salt of the sea. He caressed Athelstan’s arms and shoulders as he aligned himself to the stretched entrance and then braced his hand on dip of the spine as he slowly penetrated the Englishman’s body, making him cry out. 

Athelstan felt wounded; he could not disguise the anguish on his face brought on by the piercing ache. For a moment it crossed his mind that this was a most unnatural defilement of a man’s body and a twinge of shame threatened his spirit. But from the indecent words and shaky breathing coming from above, it was clear Ragnar was in an entirely different state. His body was still as stone as he adjusted to the tightness surrounding him. Yet despite the intensity of his pleasure, Ragnar remained aware of Athelstan’s condition and made it known by soothing a hand down the man’s back to quiet his whimpers. 

“You have to breathe.”

Athelstan listened to his kind advice and inhaled deeply through the stabbing pain, trying his best to not pull away from Ragnar, but invite him further in. He gripped his own cock, still coated in a thin veil of oil, and began to stroke in hopes that the pleasure would be a distraction from the ruthless invasion, and he found that it was. Having lost the support of one arm, he lay with the side of his face pressed into the bedding, clenching his teeth through shallow breaths until the pain began to lessen. He tried to focus on the idea of it rather than the reality, the fact Ragnar was filling him, taking possession of him as his lover. By the time Ragnar began to move with care, the sensation was nothing more than a dull stretch.  
The Viking strained with effort as he pushed in and out it shallow thrusts, resisting the longing to bury himself deep all at once into the tight warmth awaiting him. When he had made it more than half way in, the unwilling flesh started to give way and Athelstan, no longer showing distress, began to press back against Ragnar’s groin. Emboldened by this, Ragnar straightened his back and took hold of the Englishman’s hips, inching in until he was up to the hilt and then rocking in a lasting, unwavering rhythm. 

“Fuck,” he heard Athelstan say, and was certain it was the first time the monk had ever sworn. A few more expletives escaped from his mouth in a whine and it gave Ragnar a bit of a thrill to hear such filthy words from Athelstan. Wanting, or rather needing, to see Athelstan’s face at this moment, he swiftly removed himself, used his strength to hoist Athelstan and turned him onto his back again. He had expected Athelstan to have his eyes closed, but instead the priest returned his gaze, wittingly making a connection of trust that drove Ragnar absolutely mad.  
The respite only lasted for a couple of heartbeats before Ragnar pushed Athelstan’s knees up to his chest and his unyielding hardness slid into the tight hole again. There was nothing holding him back now. He sunk in fully right from the start this time and initiated a series of long, powerful strokes that filled every bit of the younger man’s body and touched a sensitive point inside of him that made him moan with abandon. Ragnar could not keep this pace for long without the threat of faltering, so he changed his tactics by bucking steadily in short thrusts that allowed him to revel in the warmth encompassing his cock. 

Athelstan peered down to look at him again and watched Ragnar break into a full sweat, jaw clenched in concentration. The effort showed in the small contractions of his abdomen, rippling in waves up to his pectoral muscles and the veins in his neck. Feeling the pace quicken again, both of Athelstan’s hands reached to grip the side of the bed for stability. The fiery sensation at his core was increasing and he could not control the desperate need to arch into the onslaught nor the guttural grunts of pleasure escaping his mouth. His consciousness faded in and out as waves of arousal flooded his senses and he became lost, listening to the carnal sounds of their bodies colliding as Ragnar drove into him relentlessly. 

Athelstan would have to devise a new language to describe what was happening to him. His skin was feverish and he felt wildly unsteady, as if at any moment he may begin to weep. But before tears could swell in his eyes, he squeezed his cock firmly and a stream of hot white liquid erupted from it, spilling over his stomach in spurts. The feeling was ecstatic and agonizing—rapturous. He bit into his lip to stifle his screams and covered his face with the back of his forearm as his spent body weakened and went limp. Baring witness to this impassioned scene, Ragnar knew then that his time had come also. He climbed onto the bed and fell flush over Athelstan’s body, soaked skin sliding together, hips grinding harder and harder as Ragnar panted through the exertion. “Athelstan,” he cried out as his thrusts became more erratic. His cock throbbed and emptied inside the priest’s slack body, his seed leaking out and down his thighs. He grabbed hold of one of Athelstan’s hands and held it lovingly before his heavy weight collapsed over the man beneath him. They held on close, noses pressing into each other’s bearded cheeks and lips brushing in soft kisses, until the beating of their hearts began to settle. 

 

*

 

The rainfall had stopped sometime in the night as Athelstan and Ragnar lay beside each other covered by a shared blanket in the semi-dark room. Silence was only disrupted by the sound of shallowing breathing and the occasional rustling of the bed. There had been few words exchanged after the matter; the two were still restless, still full of thoughts, perhaps now more than before.

“I should return to my room,” Athelstan finally said. He softened the tension in his mouth with a small smile to give a bit of lightness to the statement. _I wish I could stay_ , he could have said, but there was no use in saying such a thing at this moment. 

“Yes, I suppose you should,” Ragnar reluctantly agreed. “In a few hours, I will return to the camp and wait for Rollo. I’m certain Lagertha has already informed the men and made all of the arrangements.”

“I’ll be there. I am to accompany the party and assure the safe return of King Aella along with the mercenaries.”

Ragnar nodded once to confirm that he understood, then leaned in to place a kiss on Athelstan’s brow just as he had when the two had first spent time alone in the scriptorium. He turned on his side with his back to Athelstan as the priest stood to gather his clothing and dress himself. Ragnar closed his eyes and listened in on the small shuffling noises as Athelstan prepared to leave his side. 

“Will you come back with us? Or will you stay here, with your people?” he asked calmly. 

Athelstan stopped moving instantly, but his response lagged behind. 

“I can’t answer that, Ragnar.”

Everything was very still. Ragnar breathed in deeply, eyes still shut and back still turned. He tugged at the blanket and pulled it more tightly over his shoulders, ready to enter into a peaceful sleep.

“It does not matter. I will ask you the same question again tomorrow.”


End file.
